


In Dreams

by SheWearsRed



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Fantasizing, Masturbation, Pining, The Chantry Is Basically the Catholic Church Amirite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29708586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheWearsRed/pseuds/SheWearsRed
Summary: She has been gone for weeks and he sees her in his dreams sometimes. She dances in the farthest corners of his mind, unreachable, always, try as he might to find her, to hold her, to love her.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Kudos: 11





	In Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I had no intention of publishing this as a one shot and instead wanted to incorporate it into a novella-length, chaptered fic. But that (probably) isn't happening because I am heinously bad at plotting. So here it is, in its smutty one shot glory for your enjoyment.

The thought never crossed Cullen’s mind when he was at the Circle. Too pious, perhaps. Or too ashamed, when he was too keen on running away from an adolescent fascination with a mage whose name and face he could scarcely remember now except in nightmares. He’d never had time to even stop to _breathe_ , let alone think about such _things_ \-- things that were inappropriate preoccupations to have for someone in his position. 

But now? He finds his thoughts fleeting. He finds them fleeting far too often, chasing after the echo of laughter in the empty halls of Skyhold in the middle of the night, following the scent of woodsmoke and wildflowers he must have only been imagining. For many nights now he has been tormented by a vision, flame-wreathed with a mane of wild curls, her sparkling eyes, her freckled skin, just out of reach…

Cullen misses Rosalind terribly -- and perhaps pitifully. 

He has resisted for so many weeks, ever since he’d laid eyes on her when they had finally reached Skyhold. She had come to him with new vulnerabilities he hadn’t seen in her before, and it was almost frightening to think that she, who seemed the bravest among them, had finally begun to lose her resolve. He was overwhelmed with the urge to draw her into his arms and hold her close--but that was born of a selfish desire too. He had begun to think of her as something other than what she’d been to him when they’d first met, even then. To imagine that she might not have made it out of Haven alive was unthinkably terrible, and oh, what a magnificent thrill it was to hear her speak the same words to him. 

She has been gone for weeks and he sees her in his dreams sometimes, the more pleasant ones at least--mercifully. She dances in the farthest corners of his mind, unreachable, always, try as he might to find her, to hold her, to love her. 

The first time he dreams about making love to her, she is bare, freckled skin against ivory satin, painted rose-gold in the dying firelight, and she is warmer than sunlight, more celestial than all the stars above. 

Still, it is a surprise to him that he wakes in a feverish state, painfully aroused. 

He spends the next several hours, sleepless, trying to ignore the ache that is bone-deep, the sucking wound in his chest, the hunger and need that cannot be sated. 

Before long, he finds that the dreams come nightly, and there is no balm to soothe the agony of it. He longs for her, the weight of her gaze, the way her smile softens for him and sends his chest fluttering. And then his thoughts take flight, and for the first time in wakefulness he imagines she’s in his bed; he is ensnared by the smell of smoke and flowers, lit aflame by the brush of silky copper tresses against his bare chest, his every sense alight. He thinks of her full, pouting mouth, bitten red. And he thinks of her small hands, her slim, deft fingers. 

It is her hand, not his own, that delves downward. She coaxes out of him the dark tendrils of desire that curl low in his belly, the insurmountable need he has fought for too long brought forth until it becomes too much to bear and spills forward in a white heat that leaves him trembling, and it’s all he can do not to cry out - or worse - let her name tumble from his lips. Frissons of ecstasy lick at him like flames, and when he comes, it’s her face he sees, whispering the dulcet, sultry psalms that have him rutting into his own hand, biting back strangled moans that rattle and die in his throat. It is bliss and it is anguish, and it is the most exquisite torture, to have her and yet not have her. 

The torment of opening his eyes to a dark room and a cold, empty bed is a rude awakening, and he feels a heavy pang in his chest, dispossessed of the euphoria he felt only moments before. His face burns hot with shame as he washes clean his clammy, sticky skin, not for what he’s done but for thinking such obscene thoughts about someone he had no right thinking about in such a way. He feels his heart pound in his chest. He knows this likely won’t be the last time it will happen. He is not as strong a man as people expect him to be. 

He falls asleep, undressed, curled around a pillow. Just before he slips into sleep, in the thin barrier of surreality between wakefulness and dreams, he imagines he smells violets and embers, hears the soft sound of laughter like Chantry bells.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few more one shots that were meant to be incorporated to above mentioned novella-length fic that'll get published after this. I'll probably also periodically write more but I'm focusing on writing my original fiction novella so ... we'll see how that goes before I make any promise. *peace sign*
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, comments, etc. Your support means more to me than I could possibly say.


End file.
